


the veil of the usual

by marquis



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, The Bright Sessions AU, doesn't have to be good just has to be done!!!, listen i haven't written anything in years go easy on me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 19:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20971790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis/pseuds/marquis
Summary: Jon is twelve the first time it happens.He’s not sure what triggers it, exactly; it might have been his parents arguing quietly outside his door, or maybe a loud noise caught him off guard. Regardless, he starts in his bedroom with an atlas spread out on the floor in front of him. And he ends standing in the middle of a cobblestone street he doesn’t recognize during a thunderstorm.There’s a moment of panic, a moment when he wishes he had a raincoat or an umbrella. But he realizes soon after that he doesn’t have to worry – the rain is falling through him.(The Bright Sessions AU)





	the veil of the usual

**Author's Note:**

> This idea is the result of the epiphany that both Elias and Dr. Bright rely heavily on tape recorders. Everything that came after that was, essentially, a fever dream. I apologize for any typos or inconsistencies; fic is not part of my normal day-to-day anymore.
> 
> Some warnings: A hospital makes an appearance. There's some medical malpractice, panic attacks, and a bit of violence. Overall, I tried to keep it pretty tame.
> 
> (Title from Drifting Off by Seamus Heaney.)

Elias has a tape recorder by his chair.

Jon knows it’s on during every session. He can hear the whir of the tape, the blinking red light. It used to bother him; given his own often voyeuristic circumstances, he spent a significant amount of time wondering just who was listening to his statements, who was hiding on the other end of the line.

He remains unconvinced by Elias’ promises of doctor-patient confidentiality, but much like the proverbial frog in the pot of water, he’s gotten used to it. Much like he’s gotten used to everything else.

“Oh, pardon me,” Elias says. He picks up the recorder. “Session date: January 13, 2018. Patient A-430C.” He places the tape recorder back on the side table and picks up his pen. “Tell me, Jonathan… where have you been?”

\--

Jon is twelve the first time it happens.

He’s not sure what triggers it, exactly; it might have been his parents arguing quietly outside his door, or maybe a loud noise caught him off guard. Regardless, he starts in his bedroom with an atlas spread out on the floor in front of him. And he ends standing in the middle of a cobblestone street he doesn’t recognize during a thunderstorm.

There’s a moment of panic, a moment when he wishes he had a raincoat or an umbrella. But he realizes soon after that he doesn’t have to worry – the rain is falling through him.

That is, until he pays attention to it. It’s as though the laws of nature are working to right the inconsistencies and the rain splashes against him and falls through him almost in equal measure. As though the knowledge of its follies forced the universe to reconcile itself with his unexpected presence.

Those are not the explanations he has at the time, of course; those are the musings of a much older man. At the time, his thoughts are these: _not wet?_ and, subsequently, _wet._

Everything is grey. Jon wonders if he’s dreaming, and when a horse-drawn buggy patters past and only sort of drenches him, he thinks perhaps that is the only proper explanation.

It is only when days have passed, when the rain has cleared and he is surrounded by men in tall top hats and extravagant mustaches, women with parasols and butterflies in their hair, that he realizes he may never wake up. By then, Jon is hungry. He is lonely. He would like to go home.

Eventually, he does. And the ensuing lecture from his father about running off, along with the flyers around the town of his face beneath the word M I S S I N G, lead him to believe it was not much of a dream after all.

\--

“What do you believe triggered your trip yesterday?” Elias asks, in a voice that does not offer pity nor allow for negotiation. It’s one of the things Jon likes about him; there’s no doubt that the stories are true, only a search for an explanation.

Jon shrugs. “I’d be inclined to blame the fire alarm,” he says, “except that I removed the batteries after last time.”

Something in the architecture of Elias’ face reminds Jon of cathedrals. Perhaps it’s the arch of his eyebrow. “Isn’t that a code violation?”

“I will not be sent back to another bombing.”

“Do you think identical triggers would send you to the same place, Jon?” Elias asks, unperturbed.

Jon grits his teeth. “I’m not that interested in finding out.”

The clock ticks loudly in the silence that follows, competing only with the scratch of Elias’ pen. There are no decorations in his office, no plants or family photos to catch Jon’s eye. Only the blinking red light of the tape recorder.

Jon stares at it, irritated by its refusal to line up with the tick of the clock. He’s not sure which one is faster or slower, only that they fall in and out of sync constantly.

“I’d be interested to know if there is a link between the two,” Elias says.

Jon frowns, still thinking of the tape recorder and the clock. “I don’t--”

The fire alarm sounds.

\--

Some places are more common than others. He finds himself in the hospital where his mother died, or in the cemetery where his father is buried. The second world war has become a bit too familiar for his liking, though he can adjust so long as he’s not in the trenches. He’s been to Paris so often he’s never bothered to buy a ticket.

But in the decades since his episodes began, Jon has never been here before. He’s sure of that.

It’s cold. So cold even he can feel it, through whatever metaphysical barrier protects him. There’s nothing to see but endless white. He can’t find the horizon through the blank nothingness, and it’s only by pure chance that he happens to wander in the right direction and find himself in front of the thick metal door of a research base.

If he does not think of the door, it cannot stop him. He steps through it.

Scientists huddle around the table, looking through microscopes and studying maps.

“I hear it’s supposed to hit 48 below today,” one of them says. They’re dressed comfortably, a sweater over fleece pants. They’ve got bunny slippers on their feet.

“And who told you that?” demands another, laughing. He’s holding a cup of steaming coffee in gloved hands. “48 below, could you imagine? I’d run outside in my underwear for 48 below.”

Their chatter is mundane, and Jon doesn’t focus on it. That is likely why he goes so long without noticing the woman standing across from him.

Her gray hair is pulled back in a severe bun, revealing a sharp and inquisitive face. She’s hardly dressed for the weather; in fact, it almost looks like she’s wearing scrubs. And she is staring directly at Jon.

“I can see you,” she says. Her voice is like barbed wire.

No one else in the room even looks her way.

Jon instinctually takes a step back. “You’re—you’re like me.”

She begins to storm across the room, eyes alight. “Tell no one, say nothing.”

And then Jon is back in his apartment, breathing heavy.

\--

“Jon, I am of the opinion you have an anxiety disorder,” Elias tells him.

Jon snorts. “I’m sure I have plenty of them. That’s not the problem,” he says. “I want a way to stop the inexplicable travels through space and time, not a recommendation to drink some chamomile tea before bed.”

Elias shakes his head. “I believe the two are connected, Jon. From what you’ve told me in your sessions, you tend to… _displace_ yourself when you feel unsafe or alarmed. The episodes are a side effect of a panic attack.”

“That doesn’t make sense. The first time it took me--”

“The first time you traveled, your parents were fighting outside your bedroom,” Elias reminds him, in the same steady voice he always has. “That’s enough to make a young boy anxious.”

“So what, then?” Jon demands. “I do some breathing exercises? Play whale songs at all hours?”

Elias smirks, which is about as close as Jon has ever seen him get to a smile. “If that’s what works for you, sure,” he says. “Why don’t we try a breathing exercise now? I’m sure I can sort out some whale song, if you’d like.”

Sometimes, Jon wonders why he bothers with these appointments. If Elias weren’t the only atypical therapy specialist in the whole of London, he’d have left ages ago.

“Breathe in and count to five, Jon.”

\--

There is a moment where he believes he must be drowning.

There is nothing around him but blue, nothing but the slightest pressure on his body that intensifies the more he focuses on it. He finds himself gasping for air, swallowing water instead.

_Count to five._

He wants to scream, wants to remind himself through the white-hot panic and the sting of salt in his throat. He’s coughing, now, giving up what little air he brought with him to this hellish place.

_Breathe in. Count to five._

The current pulls lightly at his soft edges, almost like a breeze. He latches onto that feeling, that one sensation so close to being familiar, and he counts.

When he resurfaces, rivers of saltwater fall to the bathroom floor. He’s drenched in some places, dry in others, and one of the other librarians is banging on the door asking if anyone is in.

Jon grips the edges of the sink and stares at his own blood-red eyes. “Just a minute!” he calls. It comes out raspy.

\--

The tape recorder blinks. Jon does not.

“I’ve never spoken to anyone about it before,” he says. “I always assumed they wouldn’t believe me.”

Elias hums. “You’re right, they wouldn’t. Even those who have studied atypical mutations are unlikely to admit to knowing about them to the general public.”

“But you’ve studied us for years, haven’t you? You’ve worked with other people like me?”

“Never anyone like you, Jon, I assure you,” he says. He doesn’t make eye contact as he says it, focusing only on his notetaking. “Your ability is… unique, in a number of ways. Chronal-spatial displacement – it’s incredibly rare, and if there are others, I’m sure the travel manifests differently.”

Jon shifts forward. “Why do you say that?”

“Because if others traveled in the same way you do, it makes sense to assume the same force pulling you to specific moments in time – like the war, for example – would pull you toward each other,” Elias says. “And if you’d met anyone else on your trips, I’m sure you would have told me.”

Jon says nothing. He stares at Elias’ pen, writing languidly until it isn’t anymore. He watches the clock as it ticks forward, on a path straighter than his own. And then, finally, his eyes shift to the tape recorder, blinking away as it listens to every word.

“You would have told me, wouldn’t you, Jon?” Elias presses, and it’s not out of concern but rather with the expectant tone of a parent to a child he knows has misbehaved.

“Yes, of course.”

Jon has a feeling Elias still doesn’t believe him. He almost admits to the lie, but then Elias is moving on to something else.

\--

He’s been to this street so many times since the first trip. It’s England, he knows, and Jon’s best guess is it’s sometime in the 1800s. Given that he can’t stop anyone and ask, his best guess is all he’s got.

The rain is falling, just like it is every time. A horse-drawn buggy trots past. Jon steps out of the way, more out of habit than necessity. By now he’s visited most of the buildings along the road, some often enough to recite what’s happening inside – a family is gathered in the parlor listening as their youngest daughter practices her piano in the house on his immediate left, and to the right two older gentlemen are negotiating a business deal.

Jon doesn’t mind the piano lessons; the young girl is no Beethoven, but she’s decent for her age. It’s a relatively safe space to spend his time while he waits for his body to decide it’s safe to go home. He finds himself wandering there a lot, lately.

But he doesn’t want to sit still right now. His nerves are still firing off danger signals. It had been a car this time, headed straight for him on his bicycle. And then he’d vanished. Lord only knows if his bike will still be there when he returns. He tries to push that out of his mind, starts walking aimlessly.

The rain is a familiar, soothing background noise for the static in Jon’s head. It will clear up by tomorrow, if Jon is still here to see it, but for now the dampness clings to him even as raindrops fall through, and he finds himself huddling deeper into his jacket.

Eventually he’s past the places he knows, feet leading him around new corners and through alleyways. He doesn’t try to think about it, happy just to be headed somewhere at all. He doesn’t see anyone else along the way, not until he reaches a park.

There’s another man there. He’s sitting on the edge of a small fountain, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

His _shirt_. It’s faded, almost, but Jon recognizes it – it’s scrubs, the same color as the woman at the Arctic research base.

“Hey!” Jon calls. It’s the only time he’s spoken in this place since he was a child, since he learned no one was listening. “Hey, you!”

The man snaps to attention, eyes wide with surprise. He’s too far away for Jon to hear him, but he does seem to say something.

Jon’s heart is pounding. He thinks if he were to look, he’d see his hands shaking. He races forward through the muddy grass, already breathless.

“Who are you?” Jon demands. “Can you hear me? Can you _see_ me?”

“I – I,” the man stammers, obviously caught off guard. Jon understands completely. “You’re here? How are you-- I thought I was alone--”

“Me too,” Jon breathes, and something in him wants to reach out to touch just to make sure this is all real. He holds back, somehow. “But you aren’t alone. We’re both here, somehow.”

“What’s your name? How – how are you here?”

Jon laughs. “My name is Jon. I’m told – I believe it’s called ‘chronal-spatial displacement.’ Surely the doctors have told you, I assume you have it.”

“I’m – my name is Martin,” he says, and he drops his head, no longer meeting Jon’s gaze. “I don’t have it. I just – copied someone who did, I suppose. She brought me here.”

Jon feels the relief and the excitement so fully he thinks he might cry. “The woman – the woman with the gray hair, is she with you?”

The stranger – Martin – shakes his head. “N-no, Gertrude – she’s gone now. I think she passed, or maybe they killed her. It was like she evaporated. She hasn’t come back.”

“Can’t you go back and find her?” Jon asks, before the full weight of what Martin has just said catches up with him. “Wait, who – who killed her? Where were you?”

“We were in the lab, I think. They connected all these wires between us. Gertrude – she told me it would be all in my head, that my body would stay put.” Martin takes a shallow, unsteady breath. “I suppose I’m still there, really. It’s just that my mind is here.”

Jon feels the tingling sensation of a trip, starting just at the edges. His fingers are a bit numb. “Shit, I’m – Martin, I’m headed back.”

He can see the way Martin tenses up, can see the way his knuckles get white as he tightens his grip on the fountain’s rim. “Can’t you stop it? Make yourself stay?”

“No, it – it doesn’t work that way,” Jon says, through gritted teeth. “But I’ll be back, Martin, I’ll try to find you--”

And then he’s standing in the street outside his apartment next to a police car, staring at the mangled mess of his bike beneath a front bumper.

\--

“Have you tried to control it?” Elias asks. “To direct yourself to a specific location?”

He has. Just this morning, in fact, Jon had stood in the center of his kitchen and thought of 1870, pictured the fountain and Martin sitting there in the rain. He’d even turned the stove on – which was usually all it takes to make him good and anxious.

It hadn’t worked. Even now, as Jon is anxiously trying to remember whether he’d remembered to turn the stove off, there are no signs of an oncoming episode.

“No,” Jon says. He’s not sure why he’s lying, but it feels like Martin is something he’s better off keeping to himself.

Elias’ pen comes to what might be described as a screeching halt. “Really,” he asks, although it doesn’t seem like much of a question.

“I’ve thought about it,” Jon admits, hoping that will appease him. “It might be possible. Like a muscle, or something. My body knows how to vanish, so I should be able to figure it out. But I hate the trips.”

That part is true, at least. Jon does hate when a trip happens – but now it’s because they never take him where he wants to go.

“Perhaps you might consider it,” Elias says. “If you can figure out how to control where you go and when, it could make your ability more enjoyable for you.”

Jon snorts. “I’m not sure anything will make the feeling of being forcibly removed from the forward progression of time _enjoyable._”

“Many atypicals find their abilities burdensome or taxing at first,” Elias presses on, steamrolling over Jon’s protests completely. “But in time you can learn to see it as something akin to a muscle, yes. Something that you can do whenever you would like, and something you can stop.”

Jon sighs. “Maybe you’re right, Elias, but that doesn’t make up for what I’ve been through.”

“Perhaps not.” Elias closes his notebook and stands, gesturing for Jon to do the same. “That’s all we have time for this week, I’m afraid. Stop by Michael’s desk and schedule your next visit on the way out. Oh, and Jon?”

Jon stops, midway through stretching after spending so long sat in a chair. “What?”

“I cannot help if you do not trust me. Therapy relies on honest communication.” Elias walks to the door and pushes it open. “Enjoy the rest of your week.”

Jon doesn’t allow himself to react, nodding to Elias and walking out the door. He stops at Michael’s desk to sign out and schedule for next week, and as he’s leaving, he notices a young woman sitting in the lobby.

She’s sitting stiffly in one of the chairs, and her eyes are trained on him.

“He knows about your friend,” she says, by way of introduction. She’s dressed in muted grays and blacks, from her hijab to her shoes.

Jon startles. “Pardon?”

“Basira. I can read minds,” she says. She nods toward Elias’ door. “So can he.”

\--

Rain patters softly against the glass windows and onto sidewalks almost completely devoid of people. Jon cradles his tea in both hands, glad he’s sheltered from it for now.

“You really shouldn’t tell me any of the details,” Basira reminds him, for what must be the twentieth time since she sat down across from him. “You might not be going to your appointments anymore, but I am. And anything I know is something he can find out.”

“What is the point of all this, then?” Jon huffs. “If you can’t help me figure out what to do, there’s no reason to meet. Couldn’t you just block him out, or something?”

“He’s been doing this much longer than I have. I don’t know any other telepaths; haven’t got a lot of practice keeping them out of my head. Mostly I focus on keeping myself out of everyone else’s.”

“And how’s that going for you?” Jon asks, trying not to be bothered by the fact the tea she brought over for him is made exactly to his tastes.

Basira shrugs. “It’s a work in progress. You can be bothered all you like, Jon, but you’re the one who invited me here.”

Jon begrudgingly takes another sip of his tea. Basira nods.

“Right, then,” Basira starts. “I’ve got… a friend. Someone who can help you. She’s good at finding people. Knows where to look. You can fill her in on everything we need to know, and I’ll just be where I’m needed when I’m called. Got it?”

“We didn’t say anything about a third person,” Jon says. “That’s not what we agreed--”

“Trust me, you’ll be better off with her than you would with me,” Basira interrupts. “She’ll be here in just a moment.”

“Why did you even _come_, then, if you’re just going to pass me off to someone else?”

“To facilitate the introductions. I have a feeling you two won’t like each other much, at least not at first.”

The door to the café swings open and a woman stomps in, shaking the rain from her wild, dark hair. The storm outside seems to intensify; the wind howls as it slams the door shut behind her. Glasses behind the counter rattle from the impact.

“Daisy!” Basira calls, waving a hand. The woman’s head shoots up and her gaze lands on Jon, eyes so dark they could almost be black. Jon wants to _run_.

The woman, Daisy, takes the chair next to Basira. Basira slides her own drink over; Daisy accepts it without a word.

“Jon, this is my friend, Daisy,” Basira says, and her voice is edged with a forced politeness. “Daisy, this is Jon. He’s the one who used to see Elias.”

Daisy frowns. “The one with a friend in the hospital,” she says, and even her voice has a bite to it. “You want to get him out?”

“I’ll be honest, I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Jon admits. “But I think Elias knows more than he’s letting on, and Basira seemed to have some answers.”

“Elias has some unsavory connections,” Basira says. “He’s better at blocking out telepaths than I am, but he slips up sometimes if he’s focused on another patient. I think he knows where your Martin is.”

“He’s not _mine--_”

“Whatever,” Daisy jumps in, waving a hand at Jon. “Point is, something fucked up is happening. Your friend is at the center of it. You wanted to find him, now you’ve got help.”

Basira pushes away from the table. “I’ll leave you both to it. Daisy, just fill me in on what I need to do when you get home.”

And then she’s gone. Alone with Daisy, Jon feels cornered.

“Why do you want to help me?” he asks, against his better judgement.

“I spent some time in a hospital once.” Daisy grins; it’s too sharp around the edges. “If your friend is in the same one, I’d like to thank them for their work.”

Jon stares at her, this woman with her sharp smile and her dripping hair and her anger. He has a second of doubt, a moment where he thinks this is far too big for him to be involved in. Then he remembers Martin, stranded and strapped down in a hospital bed somewhere.

Maybe this isn’t the kind of thing he can stay out of anymore.

\--

Jon does find Martin again.

He doesn’t fully understand how, what makes this attempt different from any other. But where before his attempts had left him frustrated without results, he instead finds himself sitting on the edge of the fountain.

“Martin?” he calls, glancing around. There isn’t any sign of him at first, but then Jon spots him – rushing up from just a few yards away, no longer dressed in hospital attire but rather in a suit befitting the time period.

“Jon!” Martin yells back. His face is practically overtaken by his smile. “Jon, you came back!”

That’s all they manage before Jon flickers out of focus and is yanked back to his living room.

\--

“It’s difficult, not knowing when you’re going to get pulled away,” Martin says. They’re sitting in the grass together beneath a tree, the sun drifting down through the branches. “No one here – they can’t see me, you know? Makes it hard to have a conversation.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Jon tells him.

“Ah, sorry. Of course you would.” Martin frowns. “You’ve been doing this your whole life.”

“Not quite. It didn’t start until I was twelve,” Jon corrects him. “And even then, it isn’t usually for as long as you’ve been stuck here. Most of the episodes have the decency to limit themselves to a few hours, now.”

He’s been stuck for longer than that before, but it’s not something he’d like to dwell on. Martin doesn’t ask, opting instead to pick at the grass.

“Do you always come back here?” Martin asks. “It’s just – Gertrude could go anywhere. It didn’t matter where, or when.”

“I don’t get much choice in the matter,” Jon says. “But no, I don’t always end up here. This is more common than most of the other places I’ve been – some I might only see once or twice – but it’s not the only place I go.”

He’s gotten better at choosing, though. It’s a difficult thing to explain, or even to understand himself, but since that first time he chose to find Martin, it’s been easier to point himself toward a specific place. He can even make the trips happen, although those only tend to last for a few minutes.

“What’s your favorite?” Martin asks, and then seems to catch himself. “I just mean – if you’ve been to so many places. Where would you like to go again?”

Jon shrugs. “I like it here,” he answers, without much contemplation. “I’ve been told the trips happen when I get nervous. It helps to be somewhere quiet.”

“I like it here too. Even without anyone talking to me most of the time, it’s – at least it’s pretty.”

It seems like as good a moment as any; Jon jumps to the information he really needs to know.

“Where are you really, Martin?” he asks. “Your body, where – where are they keeping you?”

Martin startles, staring at Jon like he’s just sprouted a second head. “Why? Wh-what do you need to know that for?”

Jon presses on. “If you think they killed Gertrude, you could be in danger. I have someone who might be able to help, but I need to know where you are.”

The silence that follows is almost deafening. A breeze rustles the branches over their heads and there’s a bird singing somewhere nearby, but Martin says nothing. It stretches out between them, until Jon starts to feel the telltale tingling in his extremities. Then:

“They’re called the Atypical Monitors. They’re based in a research institute near the Thames, but they’ll tell you it’s a health and wellness center,” he mutters, and Jon almost wants to apologize and say Martin doesn’t have to tell him. “It’s called the Magnus Institute. The AM is in the basement.”

“Do you trust them?”

“No.”

\--

Whatever might be said about Elias, Jon does miss having a certified expert to keep him sane. To say that he’s coping with the new developments in his life is, frankly, laughable. It’s not as though he was coping very well before everything began to unravel.

Sometimes, after an unintentional episode, he’ll have trouble convincing himself he’s back. There will still be that faint tingle in his fingertips, like his molecules are trying to remember how they fit together. He’ll find himself kneeling in his living room, grasping the carpet so tightly in his fists it feels like he might pull it out.

Jon still can’t convince himself to go out, other than to meet with Daisy or Basira. He can’t cook anything without spiraling into a panic about disappearing and burning the apartment down – which, in turn, is enough to kickstart a trip and ruin dinner. Sleep is hard to come by and not at all restful when he gets it, full of watchful eyes and hospital beds.

So he’s hardly at his best when he gets the phone call. It’s not a number he recognizes; despite his better judgement, he answers.

“Jon.”

Elias’ voice is jarring, even over the phone. Jon almost drops it.

“E-Elias,” he stammers. “I – why are you calling me? I haven’t got another appointment scheduled with you, I’m not interested.”

“That is exactly why I’m calling,” Elias says. “I’d like to schedule another appointment for some follow-up. You haven’t found another therapist, to my knowledge, and I’m concerned for your wellbeing.”

Jon wants to hang up. He doesn’t. “I’m not interested,” he says again. “I don’t want to schedule another appointment, I want to be left alone.”

“That’s not entirely true, is it?” Jon thinks of the tape recorder, the blinking red light, the ticking clock. Elias presses on without an answer. “Regardless of what Ms. Hussain may have told you, Jon, staying away from me is not the way to keep yourself safe. Nor will it help Mr. Blackwood.”

“Is that a threat?” Jon can feel the anger building up inside him like a wave. He’d never mentioned Martin to Elias, was still hoping against hope that he wouldn’t have found out.

Elias chuckles. “It isn’t a threat. More of a… bargaining chip. I’m just trying to help you, Jon. You haven’t left your apartment in days.”

“How do you know when I leave my apartment?” Jon demands.

“I know you’re up to something, Jon. I won’t let you--”

Jon hangs up the phone.

\--

Finding Martin is more difficult than it used to be. He isn’t always by the fountain now, not that Jon blames him; spending all that time in the exact same spot is a difficult thing, especially when there’s no distraction. No food, no water, no company; it all gets to be unbearable.

Jon would know. He’s done it.

Lately, he’ll show up in the park and wander around until Martin comes by. There are trips where he doesn’t see Martin at all, and sometimes if it’s been too long he’ll go searching on his own. It’s never a sure thing anymore.

Which is perhaps why he’s so surprised when he appears and finds Martin sitting on the fountain, almost like he’s expecting a visit.

“Martin!”

“Oh, uh. Hi, Jon.” Martin says. He’s smiling. “I was wondering when you’d be back. It’s been – well, it’s actually been a few weeks, I think.”

Jon feels guilty at that. He hears what Martin isn’t saying – that he wouldn’t come back, and Martin would be left here alone. He hadn’t meant for that to happen; he’d been aiming for a day or two after they last saw each other.

“A few weeks, really?” Jon asks. “I’m – I’m sorry, Martin. Traveling back to see you is still new to me.”

“Well, you’re here now.” Martin pushes himself up and moves toward Jon. “The weather’s nice today, we should go for a walk.”

It is sunny, and Jon feels a sort of phantom warmth through his sweater. He watches Martin walk past him, headed for the edge of the park, before he realizes he’s meant to be following.

“How long have you been here now, Martin?” Jon asks, once he’s caught up.

Martin’s brow furrows. He stares at his hands for a moment and counts on his fingers. “I think – maybe around six months? It’s difficult to tell. I haven’t exactly got a tally going.”

“Have you seen anyone else? Anyone they might have connected you to at the institute?” Jon prods.

“No, just you.” Martin shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the ground. “It – it gets a bit lonely sometimes. When you’re gone. I don’t know how you manage it.”

“Honestly, Martin, I’m almost never gone for that long,” Jon says. The few times he was don’t bear thinking about. “It might be odd coming back. The numbers won’t all match up. You might have only been gone a few days, or it could have been a year or two.”

Two women wander past, parasols in hand. Jon steps over to avoid them, even though he doesn’t need to; he feels the resistance of Martin’s form beside him, not quite a body but not quite the air. It’s an odd experience, although not the most unpleasant.

“And you’ve been like this since you were twelve?” Martin asks, once the women are past and they’ve resumed walking. “That sounds awful, Jon. Really.”

“You get used to it.” Jon shrugs. “I learned to fake a doctor’s note in university, and it’s helped a lot at work. Social things are harder to negotiate, but it’s not like I was ever fond of them anyway.”

Martin almost looks at home among the people milling about. He’s changed his appearance a few times since Jon first saw him, switching between outfits he might own and more period-appropriate attire. He opted for the latter today, and he blends in far better than Jon in his jeans and sneakers.

“I understand what you mean,” Martin says. “Going out, it’s – I never knew for sure if I’d run into someone with an ability, or how well I’d manage to control it if I happened to start copying them. It was always easier to stay home and take care of my mum.”

Jon hums. “Well, I’m sure she appreciated that.”

“Not quite.”

“Yours too?” Jon asks. “My grandmother was always lecturing me on my coming and going, no matter how I tried to explain it away.”

Martin shrugs. “My – I guess my father could do a lot of the same things I can. My mum never appreciated the reminder. Might be she likes it better now I’ve stopped coming by.”

“We’ll still get you out of here somehow, Martin,” Jon says.

The conversation ends there, both of them lost in their own thoughts. They keep walking together until Jon is pulled back to the present, sitting behind the front desk in the library.

\--

It’s a forest.

Jon can’t see much else, what with the trees. It seems tropical; there’s a fog hovering around him, and he’s surrounded by unfamiliar birdcalls. He struggles to breathe, gasping down the thick, humid air.

There had been an unfamiliar car parked outside his place. Tinted windows, no plates. He’d been so sure it was Elias, come to take him away to the institute or some other remote testing sight. The panic had set in, and, inevitably, he’d ended up somewhere else.

He’d ended up here. Apparently safe, and absolutely alone. Jon can hear the soft sounds of rain in the distance, threatening to overtake him.

He sits down at the base of a tree, pulls his knees to his chest, and waits.

\--

“Jon?”

Georgie’s hair is shorter than it used to be. She’s mostly in shadow, standing in her lit doorway as Jon hovers on the stoop.

“Hey,” Jon says. It’s a bit less impressive than the speech he’d practiced on his way over. “Uh, sorry, I’m – I’m in a bit of a bind. Do you mind if I – could I stay with you for a few days?”

“Wow,” Georgie draws the word out, voice barely above a whisper. “It must be bad if you’ve come to me.”

“Wouldn’t dare come near otherwise,” and it’s a little bit true, but he means it as a joke; he thinks she knows that.

She’s silent for a moment, eyes fixed on him. Doubtless she’s taking in the bags under his eyes, his unwashed hair. He’s not sure she’ll say yes, not really, but he wants to believe it’s been long enough to get over the worst of their shared history.

“Either take a shower or share the cat bed with The Admiral,” Georgie says finally, stepping to the side and opening the door fully. “I don’t want my couch smelling like week-old takeout after you’re gone.”

“Most of the time it’s still good after a week,” Jon argues. The kitchen is a nice blue color, new from the last time he saw it. There’s a movie on the TV and a glass of wine on the coffee table.

“Not in this apartment, it isn’t. Seriously, either go wash up or accept the fact all of your clothes will mysteriously end up in the trash overnight.”

\--

The desk is overrun with paper and photos. It’s dark in the room, just a small lamp to aid them. Daisy is digging through a stack of notes, trying to find something.

“His name is Lukas – Peter Lukas,” she says. “Says he’s some kind of specialized psychiatrist. I’m not sure that’s true; can’t find any records matching the diploma on his wall, not even the university.”

“But he runs the institute?”

“Yeah, he does. Oversees everything,” Daisy says. “It was Elias when I was a patient there, but I guess there was some kind of upheaval while I was… well, out of commission.”

Jon still doesn’t understand Daisy’s ability. Not fully, anyway; Basira had told him about heightened senses, quick reflexes, some kind of expert intuition. Whatever it might be, Daisy doesn’t use it much anymore.

“Ah, got it,” she mutters, pulling out a photograph and handing it to Jon.

It’s blurry, not quite focused. A man in a navy peacoat and a dark beard is stepping out of a car outside what Jon now knows is the Magnus Institute. He’s not looking at the camera; Jon suspects Daisy took it herself, camped out near the entryway to the building. He wonders if that was before or after they started trying to find Martin.

“That’s Peter. Tall, a bit big. He works near the test bay, so we might run into him,” she says. “If you see him, the mission is over. You run. He’s got – he sort of vanishes people. I don’t know where they go. But if you’re in his line of sight, you’ll either end up tied down to a bed in the test bay or in some horrible pocket dimension.”

“That what happened to you?” Jon asks, before he can stop himself.

“No.” To Jon’s surprise, Daisy doesn’t seem upset by his asking. “And it won’t happen to Martin, either. Peter doesn’t send his patients away.”

“Does Basira know about any of this?”

Daisy shakes her head. “Basira knows what she needs to. I’m good at pushing her out of my head, and she’s good at keeping herself contained. She won’t come in while you’re around if she doesn’t have to.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“I haven’t, but she has.” Daisy sets her papers down and looks Jon in the eye. “Stop asking questions. We aren’t here to talk about what happened to me at the institute, we’re here to get your friend out. Focus on that and we’ll both be a lot happier.”

Jon sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Most of this is still new to me. I want to know what’s at play before we go in there.”

“So long as you avoid Peter Lukas, you’ll survive. I can handle anyone else who gets in our way.”

Jon looks over their notes, the crudely-drawn blueprints Daisy has scribbled on the back of a photo of the institute. He thinks about wires connected to his temples, about panicking too much and vanishing, only to reappear in the lab after everyone else has already escaped.

“And when we get to the lab?”

Daisy shrugs. “All that is up to you, mate.” He must make a face, must show his own doubt. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you sure you want to do this? You’re risking a lot for Martin; you don’t even know him all that well.”

Jon knows he’s behaving rashly. He knows this is all too quick and he’s diving headfirst into things he can’t begin to understand. The reality of it all – of the network of people experimenting on atypicals, Elias’ connection to it, his proximity to whatever horrors happened to Daisy – is almost enough to drown Jon if he lets it.

He takes a deep breath. Daisy waits, watching him closely.

“I need him to be okay.”

Daisy returns to the paperwork in front of her.

\--

“Do you think it’ll work?”

Martin sounds like he’s trying not to get his hopes up. He hasn’t met Jon’s eyes in several minutes, opting instead to play with the hem of his shirt.

“I don’t know, but I think it’s worth a try,” Jon says. “Do you think you could do it?”

“It sounds like a bit of a longshot, but I’m willing to give it a go.”

There’s a storm on the horizon, at the edge of an already overcast sky. Winter is approaching, however slowly, and Jon would like for Martin to be home before it hits. The streets are empty around the bench they’re sitting on, everyone else opting to stay inside rather than risk getting caught in the rain.

“Jon?” Martin asks, finally looking him in the eye. “What will we do if it doesn’t work?”

“Try something else,” Jon says. He sounds more certain than he feels. “And something else after that, until we find the thing that does.”

They fall back into an uneasy silence, the weight of what they’re undertaking resting heavy in the air between them. Jon keeps waiting for that first drop of rain, the first sign of what’s to come. He wonders if Martin has somewhere to hide out when the weather gets like this, just to avoid the worst of it.

Even if they don’t get wet, there’s something deeply unpleasant about being caught in a thunderstorm with nowhere to go.

“You don’t have to do it.” The words tumble out of Martin in a rush, like he’s been fighting to keep them contained. “It’s dangerous, you could end up stuck there, I’m fine here--”

“You’re not fine here,” Jon interrupts. “You’re stuck in a place with nothing to offer you, and no way to get out. You’re facing an endless void of time you don’t belong in, and you hate it.”

Martin opens his mouth to argue, but Jon doesn’t let him.

“I know because I’ve been there, Martin. I still _am_ there, and I would not wish it on anyone. If I can get you out, I will,” he says.

Jon isn’t sure what prompts him to reach for Martin’s hand. He knows it won’t work, that they exist in different spheres from both the world they inhabit and each other. But Martin looks lost, a bit doubtful, and Jon finds his hand outstretched before he’s even aware it’s happening.

There’s no real contact. Just the same sort of resistance that always inhabits the places that look like Martin. His hand doesn’t actually fall through; it just sort of hovers, trying to decide whether it believes there’s something underneath.

\--

Basira’s room is messier than Jon might have expected. There are stacks of books all over, some thrown open on the ground and hidden under furniture. There are wilting flowers on the windowsill, turned toward whatever weak sunlight the outside can offer. She’s sitting on her desk, book in hand. Jon doesn’t think she’s paying any attention to him at all.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to know anything about the plan,” he says, just to break the silence.

Basira looks up at him, cross. “Don’t think about it, then.”

“Great advice. Thanks.”

“Just do what you came here for, Jon. Focus on what you want to do with your ability right now, not what you want to do with it later,” she says.

It still isn’t easy, getting himself started. Jon tries to focus on his senses – the uncomfortable way the desk chair digs into his thighs, the artwork on the cover of Basira’s books, the smell of the flowers. The carpet under his shoes is worn down from years of heavy shoes and furniture. Daisy is in the kitchen washing dishes. His shoulders are tense, rising close to his ears; he breathes in deep and forces them down.

Jon begins to follow the grain in the wood of the desk. He traces the lines, imagines himself walking along the dark thread of browns and greys. He imagines stepping outside of it, jumping to another line – the line where Martin is.

He thinks of the bubbling fountain, the smell of horses. He can almost feel the breeze running through his hair, feel the carpet give way to cobblestone streets —

“Stop.”

Basira’s voice jerks Jon away, pulls him back to her room and the desk and the musty books. She’s staring at him, but her gaze gives nothing away. Jon’s fingers are tingling, like they’ve just woken up.

“Did I start to go?” Jon asks. He’s sure he did, he could feel the trip coming on. He could feel himself stepping beyond, out of one grain and into another.

“Yes,” Basira says. Her eyes snap back to her book, presumably to the exact place she left off. “Now do it again.”

“Can’t I at least have a minute to collect myself?” Jon demands.

Basira doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s spoken. Jon huffs, already tired of this game they’re playing. But he settles back into the chair. He feels the chair, his socks, his shoes. He thinks of sunlight.

\--

It’s a nice day.

That is, perhaps, the most incongruous part of all of this, Jon thinks. He doesn’t really want to be focusing on the weather, but it’s what his mind has latched onto to avoid other things.

Daisy had thrown scrubs and a lab coat at Jon when he first got in the car, herself in a security uniform.

“You could have at least shaved,” she’d said, and not much else.

Jon had watched the clouds roll by outside the car window. He’d watched those clouds slowly turn to buildings, to pedestrians and more traffic. And then everything had fallen away as Daisy pulled up to the back of the Magnus Institute.

The institute doesn’t look like much – just a tall, older building along the river. Jon has probably walked past it dozens of times, maybe hundreds. But today it looms taller, a monolith of fear and faulty medicine casting its long shadow over everything.

They march inside, through heavy metal doors with no windows. There’s no receptionist. It’s just long empty white, sterile walls on all sides. Daisy takes long, purposeful strides toward the elevator; Jon finds himself struggling to keep up with her, falling just slightly behind.

In the elevator, she hands him a key card to clip to his coat pocket. It has a picture of him, though he’s not sure how she got it.

“They might ask you questions,” Daisy murmurs. “Keep it short. Don’t give up your real name.”

“I’m not that stupid,” Jon says, fighting to keep his own voice low.

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” she says, and she presses the down arrow.

The lift jerks into motion and Jon feels his stomach lurch. He’s still not entirely sure this is all real, that he’ll be able to do what needs to be done. His heart is pounding – if he isn’t careful, he thinks he might start to disappear.

The door opens to a lobby. There’s a desk here, and a young man sits behind it. Beside the desk is a large, heavy door with a window of glass in the center; it has a blinking slot for their key cards. Daisy begins her steady march ahead once more, Jon following just behind.

“Excuse me!” the receptionist calls out, as Daisy breezes past.

Jon freezes, almost afraid to turn and face the man in case he gives anything away. Daisy catches Jon’s eye, brow creased in something that might be frustration – or fear.

“Sign in sheet? Come on, you both know better than that,” the man says, holding out a clipboard and a pen.

It doesn’t seem to calm Daisy down at all, but Jon is relieved. He accepts the clipboard and says, as calmly as he can muster, “We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“Yes, well,” the receptionist says, in a tone that conveys he’s used to being brushed off, “I’m only doing my job. Sign and date it and you can get on with – with whatever it is you do.”

Jon does as he’s told, scribbling something that could pass as a signature if it isn’t looked at too closely. He passes the clipboard over to Daisy, who scratches a name before handing it back. The receptionist frowns at the sheet for a minute before sighing and waving them off.

Daisy’s card seems to work; the door beeps loudly and swings open for them, and then they’re inside.

The AM is eerie in its silence. There are no nurses or doctors wandering the halls; every door is closed. There are nonsensical patient IDs on every door – R849-C, W053-E, K232-B. Jon wonders if he might end up here, locked behind one of those doors, only the number A430-C to identify him.

He’d never bothered to ask Elias to explain the rules for identification numbers. Now he wishes he had.

Daisy doesn’t seem to need it, though. She maintains her pace, stalking straight ahead until a new hallway branches off.

Jon almost runs into her, but he catches himself just in time. He’s about to ask her what she’s doing when she turns her head to look down the hall. Jon realizes then that her eyes are closed, the hair on her arms raised.

“Not here, but he isn’t far.” Daisy’s voice is a low growl. “Never hunted a mimic before. It feels… weird.”

Jon knew some of Daisy’s powers. It’s safe to say Basira never told him about this. “No one is hunting Martin.”

“Well,” Daisy says, and it sounds like she’s biting back a laugh, “maybe _you_ aren’t. Come on.”

She’s off again before Jon can respond. He hurries after her, pushing back against the wave of nervous frustration rising within him. He can’t vanish right now. He has to find Martin first.

Daisy leads him down a maze of identical hallways, past dozens of dull gray doors. They don’t see anyone; they don’t hear anything. The institute feels empty. Jon wonders to himself if Martin had ever wanted to be here.

And then Daisy stops. Jon almost runs her over, lost as he is in his thoughts, but he doesn’t; she grabs him by the arm, grip like a vice over his forearm. “This one,” she says.

I002-M, the door reads. Jon never thought to ask for Martin’s patient number; he has to trust Daisy.

\--

“How will I know it’s happening?” Martin asks. “Will you – will you be here with me, too?”

“I don’t really know. Time isn’t – it isn’t that easy to figure out, I suspect,” Jon says. “In my experience, it mostly just does whatever it wants.”

“I don’t think you can blame time for your ability,” Martin says, and it sounds almost like he’s teasing. “At least some of it is likely user error.”

Jon doesn’t respond to that immediately. He’s lost in his thoughts a little bit, thinking through everything he’s supposed to do in the next few days. Basira and Daisy both seem to think it will work, or at least has a chance of not failing completely.

Jon isn’t sure he can bring himself to believe that. But he has to try. He has to do _something_.

“I don’t know how it will work,” Jon says. “You might be able to – to feel it, even like this. I just need you to hold onto it. Whatever the feeling is. If it doesn’t work, I’ll come back and find you another way.”

\--

Martin looks different in person. His hair is longer, face thin. Wires stretch from his temples to the machine beside him, and a heart monitor beeps steadily away. It’s clear he’s been mostly left alone since Gertrude died and left him stranded. Jon feels a white-hot flash of anger in his chest. He swallows it.

“I can feel him reaching out,” Daisy says, clearly uncomfortable. “His ability – it’s like it’s following my senses back to me. I don’t like it.”

“Then the sooner we get me hooked up to him, the better off we’ll be,” Jon mutters, and whatever anxiety he was feeling falls away in the face of finding a solution. He approaches the machine hooked up to Martin’s brain, searching it for additional hookups or monitors.

Daisy closes the door and keeps herself stationed beside it. Jon assumes she’s listening for trouble. “Quit looking for more wires,” Daisy says. “You don’t need them. He’s ready, fucking do it.”

Jon doesn’t want to take any chances, but he can’t waste any more time. He looks at Martin – pale, still, almost lifeless – and can’t wait any longer. Jon kneels beside the tiny bed and grabs Martin’s cold hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Come on, Martin,” Jon mutters. “Listen for me.”

He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, walking himself through the motions. The floor tiles are cold through the thin fabric of his pants. It smells of disinfectant, all dense chemicals and citrus. The steady beeps of the heart monitor almost drown out the static of Jon’s own thoughts.

He lets himself think of sunlight, of sitting on the warmed stone of the fountain. He pictures Martin sitting in front of him, curly hair always slightly messy for no reason whatsoever. He is overwhelmed with the smell of grass, of flowers –

“Martin,” he says; he’s not sure who will hear him. “Martin, come on. We have to go.”

The tingling starts in his toes, a barely-there tinge of the oncoming trip. He tries to hold himself steady and keep the feeling contained, tries to balance the sensation of the medical center and the open park.

Silence. Silence, stretching out over too many heartbeats and too much time. And then;

“Jon?”

It’s almost an echo, it’s so quiet. But Jon hears it.

“Yes, Martin, it’s me,” Jon says. He isn’t sure how long he can hold himself like this – he’s being pulled in two different directions, swimming against one tide and being tossed around by another. Distantly, he thinks Daisy is speaking to him.

“Where are you?” Martin asks. “Why can’t I see you?”

Jon fights off a wave of nausea. “We’re getting you out, Martin. You have to follow me back.”

“Oh! I can--”

Daisy shakes Jon out of it, hand on his shoulder. “Jon, we have to _go_,” she says. “Peter Lukas is here.”

Jon stares at her, incredulous. “What the hell are you doing? I almost had him, Daisy!”

“Then you can do it again, but we cannot do this now. We need to get out of here, Jon, I’m not fucking around.” And Jon can see the panic now that he’s looking for it. Her eyes are wide and her hand is shaking where it rests on his shoulder.

“Christ – fine, help me carry him, then,” Jon says, and he starts pulling away all the tubes and wires connected to Martin.

“No time for that either,” Daisy says, pulling Martin out of the hospital bed. She throws him over one shoulder and rushes to the door. “We have to run, Jon.”

So Jon runs. He and Daisy sprint down the same blank, identical hallways they came through, shoes smacking against the tiles so loud they echo. Daisy still seems to remember the way out; Jon just trails after her.

He has to fight the urge to look over his shoulder.

The receptionist is gone when they enter the lobby. They hurry up the stairs, skipping the elevator entirely, and before Jon can even process everything that’s happened, they’re in the car. Daisy is pulling out into the road with a recklessness that would terrify him under different circumstances.

“Where are we going?” he asks, if only to pull himself away from his thoughts.

“Somewhere else,” Daisy says.

They drive out of the city in silence.

\--

Helen Richardson lives in an unremarkable yellow house at the end of an empty street. Jon had never met her before she opened the door, but she smiles in a way that suggests otherwise.

“Hello, Detective,” she says, completely unbothered by the sight of them on her doorstep. Her red hair barely moves as she tilts her head to look at Jon. “Mr. Sims.”

Jon finds the near-normalcy disconcerting. Her nails are a long, dark slash of red.

“Where can we put him?” Daisy says, hunched over from Martin’s weight.

“Oh, Melanie and I have made up the guest rooms,” Helen waves a hand toward the stairs. “I’m sure you can find one that will work for your poor… friend. Is that him I feel? Reaching out?”

“Probably,” Daisy grunts. She shoves past Helen and stomps up the stairs.

“Ah, there it goes, yes,” Helen says. Her eyes, unsettling in their unrelenting sharpness, catch Jon’s. “Come in, Jon. You must be hungry.”

Jon follows her inside. The door closes behind him.

\--

It takes days for Martin to wake up. Daisy spends her time resting, recovering from the strain of using her ability after so long. Jon does what he can to keep Martin comfortable in that time, and tries to adjust to the new environment.

Helen’s house makes no more sense no matter how much time he spends in it. The hallways twist and turn in ways that don’t seem possible, continuing well beyond where the perimeter of the house should be. Jon gets lost every time he leaves the guest room.

They aren’t the only ones there, either; there’s also Melanie, wandering the halls with a blindfold and cane. She’s quiet, reserved; Jon’s got no idea what brought her here, and her blunt nature leads him to believe she would never tell him anyway.

“What does Helen do, again?” he asks Melanie, just the second time they run into each other.

“Architecture,” she replies, in a way that leaves no room for discussion. “You get used to it.”

Every now and then, Jon feels the anxiety welling up inside of him. The tingling feeling comes to his fingertips and toes. Each time, he fights it down. Each time, he stays.

Peter Lukas does not come. Not the first day, nor the second, nor the third. And Martin does not wake up. Jon stays by his bed, barely sleeping if he can help it. He doesn’t like this strange house with its moving hallways and its crooked doors. He’d like to take Martin away and protect him somewhere else, but he’d put his trust in Daisy and she’d gotten Martin out; he had to trust her and her friends to keep them both safe.

Basira appears overnight, waking Jon from a restless sleep as she walks into the room. She’s dressed head to toe in black and her face is set in a frown.

“How is he?” Jon asks, before he can stop himself. He’s not quite sure why he asks; not at all sure how she’ll answer.

Basira hums uncertainly. “I can hear him,” she mutters, brow creasing in concentration. “He’s active, just not active enough. Jon, it’s… it’s hard to tell if he’s truly back.”

“He’s back.” Jon forces a certainty he doesn’t feel. “I spoke to him, I – I pulled him back with me, I’m sure of that.”

“Keep an eye on him. I’ve got to see Daisy.”

Jon can’t read her expression as he meets her eyes. She turns and leaves the room.

\--

The park is achingly familiar by now. It’s winter, the branches of the trees standing stark and black against the white-gray sky. Jon sits on the edge of the empty fountain in the midst of it all, blinking in the sudden light.

Martin isn’t here.

He knows that the second he arrives. He is completely and totally alone.

The snow is heavy and solid beneath his shoes. Jon wanders, aimless, for hours.

“Martin?” he calls. He doesn’t want an answer; it’s better for Martin not to be there, to be back where he belongs. But Jon can’t keep himself from looking.

A flock of birds takes flight from a nearby tree, caws echoing over the barren landscape.

Jon takes deep breaths. He imagines he can see his own breath in front of him.

_One. Two. Three. Four…_

He comes back holding Martin’s hand, still sitting at his bedside as though he’d never left.

\--

It takes a week. A week of silence and discomfort, of strangers and wandering halls. Seven days and then Daisy is throwing the door open to Martin’s room with alarming strength, shaking Jon out of his thoughts.

“They’re here,” she says, words clipped. She doesn’t wait for a response, stalking off down the hall.

Jon follows, tripping over himself in his effort to keep up. Her shoulders are tense as she walks down the stairs to the front door; Basira and Melanie are already there waiting.

“Where’s Helen?” Jon asks, instinctively looking over his shoulder.

“Busy, Mr. Sims,” Helen’s voice calls back to him. It sounds like it’s coming from behind them, but he doesn’t see her.

“She can’t keep them out for long,” Basira says. “They can see the way in.”

Daisy pulls her gun from its holster, stepping back. “Everyone get out of the way. I’ll take care of it.”

“It won’t work,” Melanie says. She almost sounds bored. “The most you’re going to do is show them what door to open. Let Helen try for a little bit longer.”

Jon can feel a trip coming on. There’s never been a worse time for it, he knows; he bites his lip and tries to push it down, to swallow the waves of anxiety and tension racketing through him. The walls are beginning to spin, though he doesn’t know if that’s him or Helen. The debate fades to low humming noise.

And then.

“Open the door.”

Martin stands at the top of the staircase, leaning against the railing. Jon turns his head so fast he almost falls over, dizzy with the effort of staying put.

“Are you mad?” Daisy demands. “What the hell are _you_ going to do?”

“Just. Do it.” Martin’s voice is level, strong. He still looks weak, but Jon trusts him. Jon knows whatever Martin is planning, he can do it.

Helen must agree. The locks click; Basira pulls Daisy aside, and Melanie and Jon are left to lean on each other. And after a moment of stillness, the door swings open.

Jon’s knees give out. Melanie curses, struggling to support him.

Peter and Elias stand in the doorway, each of them a shadow against the gray, creeping fog. Tendrils wander in along the carpet.

“Jon,” Elias says, nodding to him. “Basira. You haven’t been coming to your appointments.”

Basira doesn’t respond; neither does Jon. His world is still spinning, and he’s struggling to focus; even so, his eyes are on Peter.

And Peter’s eyes are on Martin. “Don’t do it, Martin. I’m just here to help you,” he says, and his voice is kind enough to set Jon’s teeth on edge.

Martin hardly looks fit for a confrontation. His hand is shaking as he stretches an arm out. Jon wishes he could do something to help, anything, but nausea is rolling through him in waves as his body tries to leave, and Peter and Elias both look far more prepared for a fight than any of them.

Martin takes a deep breath. “Fuck off.”

The room fills with static, the white noise so loud it feels like Jon’s head may split open. And then everything goes black.

\--

Jon wakes up in a bed. It takes a moment for him to recognize it as his own; he finds himself expecting yellow walls, though he can’t immediately remember why. Instead, he finds his own bare white walls, his own gray sheets, the sound of traffic outside and light rain against the window. And there, asleep at his side, is Martin.

His brain struggles to make sense of that, too. Jon sees himself reaching out before he even knows he’s doing it. Sunlight is drifting through the window, turning Martin’s hair gold. But the second his fingers hit Martin’s shoulder, Martin is awake, shooting upright in alarm.

“Jon?” he asks immediately, turning to look at him. He freezes when their eyes meet.

For a moment, Jon wonders if he’s about to have a trip. The world feels quiet and soft, suspended in time.

And then Martin’s lips are on his, an urgent kiss he doesn’t even have the chance to react to before Martin is pulling away and checking him over.

“Are you hurt? God, I’m sorry, I – you disappeared, I thought I’d sent you away too somehow, and when you came back you wouldn’t wake up,” Martin babbles, words pouring out like a waterfall. His hands are on Jon’s face, running through his hair, checking him over for injuries.

Jon reaches up and catches Martin’s hands in his own. “Yeah,” he says, voice is unexpectedly raspy, “I know the feeling.”

Martin’s eyes are still searching, still refusing to land on anything at all.

“I’m here, Martin,” Jon says, squeezing Martin’s fingers.

Martin leans forward and kisses him again, still pressing, still frantic. And then he’s pulling away.

“Oh, God,” he says, pulling a hand away from Jon to cover his mouth. “We haven’t – is this okay? Do you..?”

Jon reaches up and tangles his fingers in Martin’s hair. “Yes,” he says.

Martin laughs, a little strained. His eyes are wet with tears.

He leans forward and presses his lips to Jon’s, gently this time. And Jon kisses back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Thank you to Jaz, as always, for listening as I hashed out this idea literal months ago, and for constantly reassuring me when I wasn't sure I could finish it. (I'm still surprised I did.)
> 
> You can find me @leonstamatis on Tumblr. Feedback is much appreciated!


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